"She has suffered a stroke."
Say rather, her body has been caressed
by careless angels.
 
"Your grandmother cannot move,
save for her arms."
She has seen too much to be folded
beneath white sheets,
She is in Manila
tasting the sweetness of honeysuckle,
running under a sky
a color of blue
you will never find.
 
"She can laugh…"
She is not laughing,
she is reciting an aria.
 
"but she cannot speak…"
She is speaking now,
her hands touching her face,
testing her lips.
She is asking `When
did I become old?'

The phone will not ring.
The kitchen sink counts out
soggy minutes.
 
My bedroom light bulb
coughed black days ago.
I will not learn any more
 
guitar chords; let someone else
compose a lullaby to soothe
your night sweats. I will not write
 
a grocery list or anymore poems
about people I do not know—
there are volumes churning
 
in my garbage disposal.
The same song has been playing
on the radio for days:
 
"You will never be loved."